


what comes next, hey, bust a move

by kattyshack



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Assault, Bickering, Crime, Drama, F/M, Family, Humor, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Religion, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Tension, The Boondock Saints - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: The one where Beth Greene is the heiress to some kinda come-to-Jesus crime ring, and an even bigger pain in Daryl’s ass than his hootin’, hollerin’, trigger-happy brother.Rating: Inadvisable at best.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Merle Dixon, Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene, Merle Dixon & Beth Greene
Comments: 20
Kudos: 58





	what comes next, hey, bust a move

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gutsforgarters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/gifts).



> a/n: for gus, the wind beneath my wings, who snapped me out of my depressive funk by getting me excited about this idea 💛
> 
> cw for racial slurs + sexual harassment + violence
> 
> (pls note that this is much more /inspired by/ the boondock saints, than it is an actual fusion. i don’t even know what that means. will there be ~Vibes~? i sure the hell hope so. but anyway i make major concessions for the sake of characterization and, uhhhhh, romance. *eye emojis*)
> 
> ((also note: all chapter titles are taken from songs featured on this fic’s ever-expanding [OST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/31YNN6i7qE45g9ue1JRfil?si=1OmsifRyQpCDNcYqWoZkcQ), and any epithets are from the boondock saints script.))

_**No one talks to cops. Period.** _

The pub lights glare an ugly yellow, but they shine pretty in the waitress’s hair and the jukebox kicks up old upbeat songs — won’t even cost you a quarter if you know how to hit it just right — so even when you end the night with a headache, all in all Rhee’s ain’t a bad place to spend your money.

There’s a bell above the door, fuck if Daryl knows why and he don’t think anybody else does, either, and it chimes all merry and shit when he and Merle shoulder into the place. Can barely hear the little _ring-ding-a-ding_ over Thin Lizzy on the box, but it’s sorta like a screech so it draws enough attention to their arrival to make Daryl uncomfortable.

He flicks his lighter at the tip of a cigarette just as a chorus of cheers rouse from the crowd at the counter. Merle eats that shit up, _whoop_ s and calls them all a _bunch’a motherfuckers, who’s buyin’ me a beer?_ , but frankly Daryl coulda done without it.

Been a month or so since they’ve been around, though, somethin’ like that since Hershel Greene’s funeral, so he should’ve expected it.

Daryl endures a few claps on the back alongside his brother, pulls up a stool and rolls his eyes when Glenn grins behind the bar, says, “Long time, no see.”

A stream of smoke trickles out from Daryl’s mouth when he replies, “Ain’t been that long. Couple’a weeks.”

“And I was about to go out of business without Merle around to drink the place dry.”

“Eat my ass, Chinaman,” Merle barks, good-natured as he says anything. It ain’t funny, neither, but everybody laughs.

“I’m Korean,” Glenn reminds him, for all the good it’ll do ‘cause he’s reminded ‘em all before.

Doesn’t seem to care much, just pulls two more bottles and slides them across the bar. Thing’s sticky as all hell so they don’t go too far, more than easy enough for Daryl to swipe one up and take a long draw.

Merle drains half his own bottle before he braces his elbows on the countertop, asks Glenn, “So what the fuck’s been goin’ down since we been gone, Rhee?”

“Not much besides the usual. Well,” he adds on an afterthought and a grimace, “little trouble from Negan’s people, and Joe’s, too, but no more than we saw coming. For now, at least.”

“Yessir.” Merle claps Daryl on the back, forcing another cloud of smoke from deep in his lungs. “Had a coupla run-ins with them bastards ourselves, didn’ we? Showed ‘em what’s what, killed a couple those sons’a bitches, ain’t that right, Daryl?”

“No more’n they deserved,” he mutters, and leaves it be. Doesn’t wanna think on it; he’s seen enough.

Glenn nods. He’s seen enough, too, most’a them have and not all of them enjoy it half so much as Merle does. And Daryl gets it, he does, ‘cause he knows his brother, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t get some satisfaction, too, outta what they do.

“You, uh” — Glenn pauses, makes sure most folks are too busy causin’ their usual drunken ruckus to pay them too much mind — “you hear anything about Hershel? Maggie wanted me to ask.”

“Yeah?” Merle grins. Likes to give anybody with a steady woman a hard time about it. “Where’s the old lady tonight, anyhows? Why she ain’t askin’ us herself?”

“She’s pregnant, man.” Glenn’s eyes lift to the ceiling, beyond which is the apartment he shares with his girl. “I told her to stay upstairs, but she knew you guys’d be back tonight. Word gets around, you know? And she’s been keeping an ear out, for — you know, for Beth’s sake.”

Daryl’s gut clenches when he says that. _Beth._ What with most of her family dead and the last of ‘em knocked up, little Beth Greene’s the one s’posed to take over her daddy’s business. You’d think growin’ up around here’d make you prepared for anything, but nobody’d seen that one coming.

He takes another hit off his cigarette, tries to ground himself. His eyes scan the bar, but if she were in sight he would’ve caught on to it by now. Soon as he walked in, more’n likely. He don’t know why, but…

He stubs the cigarette out into a nearby ashtray, lights another one. Well, Merle says it’s ‘cause he’s _sweet_ on her, and Daryl says he’ll kick his brother’s ass if he keeps on sayin’ that shit.

Maybe that makes it true, but he’s not about to think about that, either. Not right now, anyway. Enough shit goin’ down lately since Hershel’d been taken out — a real gruesome thing, that’d been, for a guy who’d been as good as you can be in a world like theirs. Not like all hell had broken loose afterwards, nothin’ like that, but there was definitely something oozing from the cracks underneath their feet, that’s for damn sure.

He remembers seeing Beth at the funeral — the last time he saw her — across the hole in the ground where they put Hershel to rest (or rot, Daryl thinks, ‘cause _rest_ ’s just how the folks who get left behind cope with it).

She hadn’t cried, is the thing. She wore all black and her eyes were wet, but there weren’t no smudgy streaks down her cheeks where her mascara ran, because it _didn’t_ run. She just stared at the casket, didn’t even blink, just watched it like she thought her daddy was gonna wake up and come on out. Like she was hangin’ onto a last-ditch miracle.

You either gotta be some kinda brave or some kinda stupid to believe in shit like that. Daryl used to be inclined to think stupid, but maybe there’s somethin’ hopeless about it, too. Somethin’ sad. He’d know all about that — like hell would he ever say so, but he’s not gonna pity her, neither, ‘cause it used to tense him up when people pitied him, back before he made sure they knew better.

Another stream of smoke hisses out from between his teeth, he takes a swig of beer, swallows up all those bitter tastes, and asks, “She around?”

“Yeah,” Merle says on another one of those shit-eatin’ grins a’his, “where is the li’l miss? Y’know Darylina’s been missin’ her these past few weeks. Ain’t enough for him to kick the shit outta Joe’s crew, he’s gotta have his mind on that pussy, too.”

“Shut the fuck up, man,” Daryl snaps, just as Glenn says, “You know I got Maggie’s shotgun behind the bar, right?”

Merle holds his hands up, but the gesture of surrender don’t mean much when he hoots, “ _Hooo_ , boy, s’cuse me. Didn’ know we was all _sensitive_ ‘bout blondie’s _precious flower_.”

Just his luck that the kitchen doors swing open then, right as he says that, and Beth’s ears must be all hot and bothered ‘cause she zones in on them straightaway.

Naturally arched eyebrows hitch up even higher, but the plates of fried potato skins balanced on her arms don’t so much as shudder when she says, dry but crystal clear over the jukebox — _Christ, what is that, Madonna?_ — “Nice to see you, too, Merle.”

“Aw, come on, there, sweetheart —”

Daryl grips the collar of his brother’s jacket, turns him around so he’s not eating up Beth with that look in his eye no more — he don’t mean anything by it, but it pisses Daryl off, anyway — and tells him again to “Shut the fuck up. Leave ‘er alone.”

Beth’s big blue gaze flicks up to his, and it’s like the whole goddamn world stops even though she’s still walking, still toting those plates of hot potato skins and the plates are sizzling, the jukebox’s still playing and everyone around’s still a drunk asshole, but even _still_ she’s the only thing in the whole goddamn bar. She smiles, and everything else fades out, like the end of a song, or maybe half a beer’s all it takes to get him lit these days.

Fuckin’ about forgets the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, too, only remembers it when it ashes on his hand and burns.

“Shit.” He shakes it off, but there’s a red spot on his hand that’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Physical proof that he’s a gutter-brained moron.

Merle thinks that’s real fuckin’ funny. If Daryl had it in him to believe in God, he’d thank the guy for Glenn, who changes the subject back to what the Dixon brothers came back to town for in the first place.

“So you guys find out anything while you were gone?” he wants to know, just the same as anybody else would, if they bothered to ask.

Most folks’d rather not know, though. Ain’t nobody else can come askin’ about your business if you don’t know jack about anyone else’s.

“Nah,” Daryl says around a mouthful of cigarette. Gets his shit together soon as Beth’s out of his line of sight. “Waste’a time.”

“Says you.” Merle snorts, laughs, signals for another beer and downs most of it soon as it’s in his hand. “Kicked so much ass the last few weeks, ain’t gonna need ta get off for another couple.” He grips his groin, all crude like, and hoots again. “‘M good.”

“Ain’t nobody wanna get off with your ugly ass, anyway,” Daryl snarks. He knows it’s a mistake soon’s he says it, but the corners of his mouth twitch even when Merle calls him out.

“Boy sure knows how t’ talk shit fer somebody couldn’t get his dick wet if he tried.”

Daryl shrugs, mostly unaffected, because his brother’s just givin’ him shit same as always, there’s no heat behind it, and anyway he’s right — Daryl _doesn’t_ try. Doesn’t wanna.

He chances a glance over his shoulder, where Beth’s long since passed off her plates to the guys who asked for ‘em. She’s bussing tables, mouthing along with the music. He’s sorta surprised she knows any song that didn’t come straight outta some church hymnal, but there she is, singin’ along without missing a beat. He can’t hear her or anything, but Daryl can read lips better’n he could read a book, and he’s spent plenty’a time studying the shapes Beth’s make to know what she’s saying, no matter if it’s across a crowded pub.

The bar lights wink in the tangle of her messy ponytail, and Daryl only jerks back around in his seat when he catches her eye. Doesn’t wanna be caught lookin’ at her the way he does.

Got enough problems as it is, a fact which he’s sorely reminded of when he rejoins Merle and Glenn’s conversation.

“We been lookin’ into the Gov’nor,” Merle’s saying, voice a low rasp. Lot quieter than he usually talks, but he knows how to keep it down when anyone could be listening. Rhee’s is a safe place, sure, but safe don’t mean a whole lot these days; ain’t no guarantee. “Guy’s got a hit out on most ever’body who ain’t one’a his, but he keeps his tracks covered. Got his hands in ever’body’s pockets, too. Gangs, cops, you name it, he’s got somebody on the inside, or some deal or shit goin’ to keep ‘em loyal.”

“What for?” Glenn asks, and the brothers huff in unison, take another swig of beer each.

“Why’s anybody doin’ any of this shit?” Daryl says, like that explains it all and maybe it does, to an extent. He sucks on the filter, so what’s left of his cigarette burns bright cherry red. “Jus’ the way it is. Don’t gotta know why, jus’ who an’ when.”

“Maybe Rick knows something about that,” Glenn suggests, frowning slightly, thoughtfully. “He’s been asking around about you, too.”

Daryl mimics his frown and Merle scoffs. “The hell Officer Friendly want with us?”

“Look, it’s not a secret that you guys went looking for whoever did” — Glenn pauses, swallows, when Beth walks past to head back to the kitchen, then picks back up in a whisper — “what they did, to Hershel. Rick wants to know what you found out, almost as much as Maggie does. You sure it’s the Governor?”

All signs point to yeah, probably, but —

“Ain’t talkin’ to no cops.” Daryl stubs out the cigarette, contemplates lighting another one. Doesn’t. “Tell Maggie we don’t got nothin’.”

“Is that true?”

“‘S what you’re gonna tell ‘er.”

A nerve in Glenn’s jaw tics. “And who’s gonna tell what to Beth?”

The Dixons exchange a look. Somebody’s gonna have to tell the girl something, that’s the thing of it. All things considered, she’s the de facto head of whatever the hell Hershel had goin’ on. Daryl don’t know the details. Less you know around here the better.

What he _does_ know is that Hershel Greene was a good man, and whoever done him in is a nasty piece’a work who’s gotta get his, or else they’re all fucked. Merle knows it, too; it’s why they bothered trying to track the murder to its source to start with.

“Li’l miss ain’t gotta be told nothin’ jus’ yet,” Merle decides aloud. He lights up his own cigarette, braces an elbow on the bar, and points the smoldering tip of it at Glenn. “You tell ‘er to keep that pretty little head’a hers down, y’hear? Don’t make no trouble ‘n nobody’s gonna come bother her. Don’t reckon the Gov’nor or anybody else figures her for a threat.

“Little girl like her, nah.” He shakes his head, takes a drag. Leans back in his seat. “They’ll leave well enough alone ‘less she gives ‘em reason not to.”

Glenn looks like he’s fixin’ to argue the point further — a lost cause, since Merle’ll just argue better and Daryl’s said all he plans to — but then Beth’s sticking her head outta the kitchen doors and saying, “Hey, Glenn, Maggie’s on the phone.”

He turns his furrowed brow to her, asks, “She okay?”

“As ever.” Beth grins. “Think she just wants everybody to ‘keep it the hell down.’”

“Right.” Glenn pushes away from the bar and heads to the back to take the phone off Beth, who takes his place behind the counter so that no one gets any wise ideas about drinking straight from the tap.

It’s happened more than once, after all, but most of these guys can be pretty easily cowed by either one’a Hershel Greene’s daughters.

She nods at Daryl’s empty bottle. “You want another one?”

 _Ah, fuck it._ He lights his third cigarette, asks her with his tongue wrapped around the filter, “You old ‘nough to be servin’ me?”

“Yeah,” Merle laughs, “ _tha’s_ what he wants ta know how old ya are for.”

Daryl smacks him upside the head, but that only makes him laugh harder.

Beth rolls her eyes, swipes up their empties and replaces them, popping the caps off two fresh bottles without so much as chippin’ the bright pink paint on her nails. “Could be servin’ underage and it’d still be the most legal thing goes on here, doncha think?”

“You ain’t wrong, girlie,” Merle agrees.

Daryl just hums around an inhale, exhale, elbows on the bartop, lookin’ at Beth through the dingey cloud of smoke he expels.

“So,” she says, leaning her palms on the counter like it don’t bother her none how filthy it is, “where y’all been? Haven’t seen you around in awhile.”

“Nothin’ you gotta worry about,” Daryl tells her, sharp enough to discourage her from pushing it.

She doesn’t, but she rolls her eyes again. “Yeah, that’s what Maggie keeps sayin’, too. Y’all gonna make me think there’s all sorts of things to worry about, rate you’re goin’.”

“How’s that?”

“‘Cause there’s always something to worry about,” Beth points out, like any of them need a reminder. “Keep tellin’ me there’s not and I know it’s gotta be bad. I ain’t stupid.”

“Didn’ say you were.” Daryl ashes his cigarette, fingers twitching. “Too much of a smartass to be stupid, anyhow.”

“I ain’t said one smartass thing to you tonight.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Matter’a time.”

She’s trying not to laugh now, he can see it in the quirk of her lips, the way she presses them together to keep herself from smiling but she sorta is, anyway. It’s kinda nice, seein’ that, ‘cause last time he saw her it looked like she was trying to swallow down her own broken heart.

It makes him smile, too. Not noticeably, not like he’s showing teeth or nothin’, but his lips twitch a little to match hers.

Doesn’t know how long he could’ve kept that shit up without saying something stupid to ruin it, so it’s probably a good thing when someone else whistles for Beth’s attention. The sound comes from a nearby table of cops, some’a the more shamelessly dirty ones. Definitely not any’a Rick Grimes’s squad, that’s for sure, and the Dixons aren’t even keen to talk to the likes of _him_ , let alone this crowd.

Daryl’s jaw tenses and Merle gets a little restless in his seat, too, but Beth takes it in stride. She’s used to it, most like, but it’s still bullshit.

She gathers up a few more bottles, a couple glasses of draft, says, “Back in a sec,” before she heads off to feed the dogs.

Soon as she’s out of earshot, Merle shoots Daryl a grin. “You jus’ gonna flirt with that girl whenever she asks somethin’ you don’ wanna tell ‘er?”

Daryl shifts, a little uncomfortably, but he doesn’t bother denying it. He rolls his shoulders, focuses on the last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away so it sizzles in the ashtray. “You got a better plan?”

“Shoot, no. Whatever gets ya rocks off, little brother.” Merle polishes off his beer, chortling like this is the funniest goddamn night’a his life. “Ain’t no skin off my nose.”

It really isn’t, either. Merle don’t say nothin’ that ain’t the truth, especially to Daryl. Not like he’s actually getting his rocks off, that’s not what it’s about, but Merle don’t care so long as it doesn’t interfere with what they’re meant to be doing. And far as either of them are concerned these days, keeping an eye out for Beth Greene is one of those things on their list. Don’t matter the reasons why, just that they make sure she’s looked after.

Speak of the devil…

“Hey.” Merle elbows him, nods in the direction Beth had gone a second ago. “Looks like one’a them cops’s gettin’ handsy.”

Daryl doesn’t bother to look for himself to make sure — Merle don’t bullshit around when it comes to a fight — he’s just up off his stool, eating up floorspace coated in dried mud and cracked peanut shells, yanking his gun outta his belt with his brother hot on his heels.

Beth sees them coming before the cop — Gorman, that slimy son of a bitch — does. Guy’s got a death grip on her arm, sayin’, “C’mon, honey, why don’t you sit down, have a drink with us. We’re real friendly, ain’t we, boys?”

“Little too friendly, ya ask me,” Merle drawls just as he clicks the safety off his gun, laid-back as you please, and Daryl presses the barrel of his to Gorman’s head, with a little too much bite to be considered casual.

Gorman snorts, like it ain’t no big deal to be on the business end of two guns. His buddies look a little more wary, but they’re all carrying pieces, too; just not as good a shot as the Dixon boys. None of them seem to know who Beth is, either, that she’s Hershel Greene’s kid, or else they might not’ve tried to take their chances on her tonight.

“Nobody _did_ ask you, did they?” he says, like he can afford to be a dick right now. “Mind your damn business, Dixon.”

“Mind your damn _hands_ ,” Daryl snaps back, but it comes out low like a growl. “Girl is my business.”

“What” — Gorman laughs, not like Merle had, ‘cause there’s no humor to the sound — “you’re tellin’ me you finally got yourself a piece’a tail?” His fingers bite harder into Beth’s arm, and her mouth twitches into a scowl. “This pretty little thing’s all yours, that it?”

 _Fuck’s sake._ “Sure is.” Daryl’s fingers stay steady on his gun, but he jerks his chin at Beth. “Ain’t that right, baby?”

The twist of her mouth goes to show that it _ain’t_ right, that it pisses her off to be called _baby_ and _pretty little thing_ , but if she’s smart, she’ll go along with it, and Beth’s always had her head on straight.

So that twist turns upwards into that sunshine smile’a hers, and she says, all sugar sweet, “That’s right. ‘M all his.”

Christ, even Daryl believes it for a second there. Looks like he’s the one better get his head on straight.

“Uh-huh.” His gaze slides back to Gorman, back to the barrel of his gun pressed to the bastard’s temple. “‘Preciate it if you kept your hands off what’s mine.”

She ain’t gonna like that, either, talked about like she’s some _thing_. But, again, she knows how this shit goes, knows it’s better to play along and she can bite Daryl’s head off later if she wants, he don’t give a shit so long as these guys fuck right outta here and away from her.

“Gotta learn how ta treat a lady right, Officer,” Merle goads him. “G’on, now, sweet little thing like her’s got a soft spot for manners, don’ she? ‘S why she’s done shacked up with my brother here.”

This time, when he grins, it's syrupy and real fuckn’ annoying but, fuck, whatever works. “He’s real _polite_ , see?”

Gorman looks between the brothers, like he’s searching for a fib or some shit, like it _matters_ , ‘cause Daryl’s gonna kick his sorry ass regardless if he don’t take his hands off Beth real goddamn quick.

He seems to get the picture well enough, because he does drop his hand, but then he mutters, “Damn waste,” and that hand keeps droppin’ ‘til he’s smacked her on the ass, and —

Well, now he’s just askin’ to get the shit kicked outta his skull.

“Now that wasn’t real polite, was it?” Merle clicks his tongue, even as Daryl loses his temper and kicks Gorman’s feet out from under him, so the guy stumbles back against the table. Couple of his buddies yell, beer splatters, and the click of one safety, two, three, however many but it’s too damn many, cut through music dancing out of the jukebox.

Merle’s gun is squared up on the guy’s face now. “‘Fraid we can’t let that one go.”

“Jeez, _don’t_ —” Beth starts to say, but Daryl doesn’t hear her out, just shoots an arm out to stop her from coming between a fight. Wraps a hand blindly around her hip and shoves her back, gentle as he can but god damn it, he ain’t gonna let her get in the middle of this.

It’s quiet then, half a heartbeat of tense silence (unless you count the chorus coming from the jukebox, all _“your momma don’t dance and your daddy don’t rock ‘n’ roll,”_ which probably _should_ count), and then the click of another gun snaps them out of purgatory.

Behind the bar, Glenn’s got them all lookin’ down the mouth of Maggie’s shotgun, and he says, real easy, “Now I _know_ none of you are about to start a gunfight in my bar.”

“Shoot.” Merle holds up his hands in surrender again, only this time he means it. “Jus’ tryna teach the boys here some good country manners, ‘s all.”

“Yeah, man, you’re a real good Samaritan.” Glenn’s tone is rife with sarcasm, but he leaves it at that and levels the shotgun at the table of cops. “As for you gentlemen, I’m gonna have to ask you to kindly keep your hands off my little sister and get the hell out of here.”

“Jesus.” Gorman straightens up, spits on the floor, right at Daryl’s feet. “ _Jesus_ , fine, we’re goin’. Ain’t no point hanging ‘round this dump.”

He shoulder-checks Daryl on his way out but what the hell ever, he barely registers it, just scowls at the group of retreating backs ‘til the door slams shut behind the last of ‘em, sending that little bell into a damn tizzy.

It’s quiet again, save for the jukebox, and the group at the bar mumbling amongst themselves about _no-good fuckin’ cops_. Least they’re tucking their own weapons away, so all’s well as it can be.

Beth caresses a palm over her arm, where the skin’s been rubbed red by a handprint twice the size of her own. Not giving himself a moment to think about it, Daryl reaches out to touch that spot himself, to stroke his thumb over her overheated skin like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal.

Her eyes meet his and she smiles, just a little, but it doesn’t come so natural this time as it had earlier.

He squeezes her arm, soft, and lets his hand fall away before he can do something stupid about it.

“Well, uh.” Glenn clears his throat, clicks the safety back on his girl’s piece, jars them all out of the past couple minutes. “Free round to everybody who swears they’re not gonna tell Maggie about this, huh?”

Well, that’s enough to get the ruckus started back up, that’s for sure.

* * *

It’s goin’ on one in the morning before things start to die down again, and it’s just regular ol’ closing time rather than a fight that does it now.

Probably for the best, Daryl thinks, unless they all wanna get what’s comin’ to ‘em, courtesy of Glenn Rhee. Boy might not look like much, but the Dixons have seem him pop a few sumbitches in his day. ‘Sides, you don’t fuck with a guy’s family and expect him to take that lyin’ down.

He’s settled some by now, though, washing up behind the bar while he exchanges quips with Merle over some story Merle’s telling, which sounds wildly embellished but, as Daryl can attest since he was there, is mostly true.

He doesn’t like to relive it all the way his brother does, but he’s not about to begrudge Merle of whatever satisfaction he gets outta it. Fact is, he sleeps better at night knowing there’s a few less scumbags on the street, so who’s he to play judge and jury, anyway?

Shit, he could go for another smoke. Done half a pack tonight as it is, but he could do with some fresh air, too. Clear his head, shit like that.

He abandons his stool, doesn’t stop to tell Merle or Glenn where he’s off to. They’re too busy bustin’ each other’s balls to care, so Daryl heads out through the kitchen. Back door leads to the alleyway, and maybe he could snag Beth for some company on his way out. Usually ain’t one for _company_ , but after the night she’s had, she could use the break.

Maybe he wants to make sure she’s alright, too, so sue him, damn.

She’s not in the back, though. Fuckin’ bright as hell back here, florescent bulbs buzzing and the tinny little radio crooning some old-school love song. He wonders if she’d been singing along to that, too, or if she’ll be sorry for missing it.

Dishes are soaking in the sink, trash cans are empty, so he figures she took the bags to the dumpster out back.

He shoves the heavy metal door open. Thing screeches on its hinges, and he lets it swing back into place on its own as his boots scuff the concrete steps that lead to the alley.

And, well, lookee the fuck here. Seems like Daryl’s gonna have to take out some trash, too.

The scrape of the door on its hinges is enough to catch Gorman’s attention this time, enough to get him turning around from where he’s got Beth pushed up against the rough brick wall. Hardly a beat passes, just enough for Daryl to figure out what the hell’s going on. Ain’t hard _to_ figure.

He doesn't give Gorman a shot at explaining — fucker had his chance — and lands his fist square in his face mid-turn, before he can face forward and defend himself.

“Fuck I tell you, huh?” Daryl grabs him by the collar, hits him again. Hears Beth’s shoes scramble on the gravel as she moves out of the way. “Hands off her, ain’t that right? An’ here the _fuck_ you are —”

“Jesus!” Gorman yelps, the sound cracking in the still night air along with the bones in his nose. “Get the hell offa me —”

Daryl’s still got a hold of him, same way Gorman had a hold on Beth earlier: hard and violent. He tosses a look her way, to find her a few safe steps off, face pale, eyes wide, fingers wringing together.

“Want me to let ‘im go?” Daryl asks her, panting, sharp breath tearing up his lungs, and she —

She shakes her head. Says _“No”_ in a voice so cold he hardly recognizes it, coming from those sweet pink lips’a hers. But you know what? Gorman ain’t worth the shit at the bottom of his shoes, he’s gonna go and touch her however he wants when she doesn’t, so like hell is Daryl gonna think less of her now.

She doesn’t want him to stop? Fuck it. That’s good enough for him.

Gorman gets a few hits in, too. Daryl’s lip is busted to match his knuckles, his ribs ain’t broken but they’re bruised for sure, got the air knocked outta him a time or two, might have a black eye tomorrow.

He doesn’t think on it, just hits harder than he gets, ‘cause that’s the thing when you get into it — it’s fast and ugly and it _hurts_ , and you don’t got time to think, just react.

It’s sharp pain and indistinct shouts, blood pounding in his ears and out from his mouth, busted bones and broken skin, the scuffle of shoes on gravel, the bite of brick against his back, clammy hands on his throat, rancid breath in his face — thinks maybe there’s another click, another gun ready to take some sorry bastard out, or maybe it’s only phantom sound, just a remembrance of earlier when he wanted to finish Gorman off, but Daryl’s gun’s still in his waistband, it ain’t _his_ that’s at the ready, _shit_ —

_CLANG!_

Metal meets bone, and Gorman collapses into a heap between Daryl’s feet and Beth’s.

His eyes flick from the blood trickling out of Gorman’s hairline up to Beth. Finds her shaking, little frame heaving with lungfuls of breath like she’d just broke the surface instead of drowning. Eyes wide and dark, knuckles ghost-white around the lid of a dented trash can — that’s got Gorman’s blood on it, too, just a touch, right where it made contact with the guy’s head.

Beth’s all broken out in goosebumps, Daryl could _count_ them, they stand out so stark in the dim light behind the pub.

“Girl” — his voice is raw, scraping up outta his throat as he stares at her, pulse rabbiting in his throat, wrists, _fuck him_ , in his cock, too, when that wild-eyed gaze meets his — “the _fuck_ you do that for?”

Her eyes narrow then, and her hand lowers, garbage lid dangling by her thigh when she snaps at him, “Had a hand on his gun. I wasn’t gonna watch you get shot, Daryl, so don’t you goddamn _talk_ to me like that.”

 _Jesus fuck._ “Knocked out a damn cop, girl, ‘m gonna talk to you however the hell I _want_.”

“What’d you want me to do, huh?” Beth’s not gonna give him a break here, he knows that, knows she’s right, that he could be the one laid out on the ground right now, stone-cold _dead_ , but fuck, she’s in trouble now and he’s gotta get her out of it. “He can’t just touch me and get away with it, right? You did what you had to and so did I. Ain’t just gonna stand here and let him get the best’a both of us, _jeez_ , Daryl.”

Shit, okay. Okay, so she’s right, but the adrenaline’s still pounding through his bloodstream and he can’t _think_ but he’s gotta, because —

_Don’t reckon the Gov’nor or anybody else figures her for a threat. Little girl like her, nah. They’ll leave well enough alone ‘less she gives ‘em reason not to._

Well, looks like she just done and gave them a reason.

Not like they know exactly who Gorman runs with, if anybody, but if a _little girl like her_ ’s not afraid to give one-two to a cop, she sure as hell ain’t gonna care about crackin’ the skull of anybody else who does her wrong.

Better safe than sorry.

Daryl nods, jerky, unsteady, more times than he needs to. Then he looks at her, at the flicker of light in her eyes that he knows is just the outdoor bulb catching, but it looks like something else, too, something working its way from the inside-out.

Maybe it’s ‘cause she’s scared, but he don’t. Dammit, he don't think that's it.

He catches his breath and it hurts, more than any bruise blooming on his body, but he manages to talk around it, to tell her, “We gotta go, Beth.”

She doesn’t argue, thank fuck. Just nods, same as he had, looks up at the back window of the apartment she’d been sharing with her sister and Glenn since her daddy got killed.

Daryl wonders if that window leads to her bedroom.

“Yeah.” She swallows, tears her eyes away, and the garbage lid clatters on the ground when she lets it go. “Figured as much.”

They gotta get Merle, too. He gets left behind and anyone who knows him’ll pin an assault like this on him. Daryl’s not about to put what little good faith he has on that kinda risk.

He doesn’t have to, though, no sir, ‘cause no sooner does he think it than the back door slams open and Merle’s hopping down the back steps.

Doesn’t trip up when he sees Gorman all laid out like he is, neither, just whistles and _whoop_ s some more, like his night’s only gettin’ better.

“Motherfucker got his, huh?” Merle chuckles, kicks the guy in the ribs. “He dead?”

“Nah.” Daryl presses the heel of his boot into Gorman’s spine, feels the faint but nevertheless telltale up-and-down of it. “Still breathin’.”

“Want me ta finish ‘im off?”

Daryl shakes his head. “We kill ‘im and run, Glenn might get pinned for it.”

Merle tilts his head, considering. “Think his buddy Grimes’d let that happen?”

“Don’t wanna take the chance, do we? Rick’s one guy in a precinct’a how many?”

He doesn’t elaborate, but he knows Merle gets it. It’d be their word against a police force, and there ain’t no love lost between uniforms and Dixons. Christ knows how many of ‘em are even loyal to the law, and how many belong to the Governor, Joe, Negan, whoever the fuck else might be livin’ in the shadows of this shit town, which means Beth Greene’s word won’t count for a helluva lot, either.

Daryl brings his thumb up to his mouth to gnaw at the already ragged nail. Steals another look at Beth.

“Glenn gets hauled in, what happens to Maggie and the kid, huh?” He shakes his head again. No other way around it. “We don’t tell ‘em shit, we take Beth with us. Best for everybody.”

“Whatever we gotta do, brother.” Merle shrugs, like it’s no big thing any which way. They’ve gotten themselves into tighter scraps before, haven’t they?

He tosses a look at Beth, too. “You ready for this or what, li’l miss?”

Beth’s mouth twists and her eyebrows go up. It’s almost kinda funny, the way she’s lookin’ at Merle when she says, deadpan, “Well, I don’t think I got much choice now, do I?”

It shouldn’t be funny. It _isn’t_ funny. But it’s been a long goddamn night — a long godforsaken _month_ — so Merle hoots and Daryl huffs, raises his eyes to high heaven like that’s gonna do ‘em any good right about now.

“Smartass,” he grumbles, and that pulls a smile out of Beth that’s a little bent, a little broken, but all the more real, considerin’.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, but they’re in for it now.

Merle kicks Gorman one more time, right smack in the ribs, just for good measure, and says, “Let’s haul our fine asses outta here, then, huh?”

Weird thing is, that’s probably the most sensible thing anybody’s said tonight, so there ain’t nothin’ else for it, is there? 

It’s quiet here, in the dead of too-early morning, and that sorta ringing silence would be fixin’ to drive anybody crazy, as often as it’s happened since the Dixon boys rolled back into town.

But the undersides of their boots and Beth’s sneakers slap loud against the pavement, and Merle’s hootin’ like a lunatic as they make a break for it, out of the alley behind the bar, away from the tang of blood on the hot summer breeze, and somehow — some-goddamn- _how_ — the quiet doesn’t feel like it’s gonna kill them no more.


End file.
